


Two Sides of the Same Coin

by EventHorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Don't copy to another site, M/M, Mutual Pining, Teen Mystrade, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:34:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22051126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/pseuds/EventHorizon
Summary: Teen Mycroft and Greg decide it's time to act on the longing-from-afar they've been experiencing.  Unfortunately, they go about it in exactly the same way...
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 56
Kudos: 183





	Two Sides of the Same Coin

“That is quite enough, Sherlock.”

“No, no it isn’t.”

Sherlock continued to roll about on the floor, laughing maniacally and pointing at his brother, who was glaring with an intensity that threatened to set Sherlock’s hair on fire.

“I have no idea what lunacy has vexed you today, however…”

“You look like a clown.”

“Incorrect.”

“You are slathered in greasepaint and wearing an appalling fancy-dress costume!”

“Untrue.”

It was only a small, tasteful amount of cosmetics to highlight his eyes, as was the fashion, and garments chosen with scrupulous care to emphasize… something or another. Dash it all, he’d bought exactly what was in the magazine!

“What are you trying to accomplish? Scare small children and livestock?”

“I… I am simply freshening my look.”

“What does that even mean? Did you spray yourself with air deodorizer? What was it? Field of Flowers or Cascading Waterfall?”

Mycroft kicked at Sherlock’s legs and grinned in satisfaction at the resulting yelp.

“If one does not broaden one’s horizons, brother dear, explore alternate paths, one stultifies.”

“This has something to do with that beggar dog, doesn’t it?”

“I have no idea to whom or what you are referring.”

Though do not be surprised if you find your shoes filled with something a dog might produce after a particularly large and pungent meal.

“The mongrel! That mangy, shaggy creature skulking amongst the trees in the park! Probably urinating on them, as well.”

“Gregory would never insult a tree in that manner!”

“Gregory? Are you certain it is not Fido? I am certain I saw him using his back leg to scratch fleas yesterday.”

Mycroft snarled and almost leapt on his guffawing little brother, but held back because doing so would muss his clothing and he had spent an hour getting them mussed to exactly the specifications he desired. And his hair! Dear heavens but it had taken an age to situate each strand in precisely the correct position. Perhaps he should apply additional product to ensure the walk to the park did not cross paths with a breeze which would utterly undo his coiffure.

“Your juvenility appalls me.”

“My intellect and wit astound you, you mean. He is a gardener’s boy! An unkempt, rough-tongued…”

“You have spoken to him!”

Mycroft dropped like a stone and sat on his brother, enduring Sherlock’s inhuman screams while he kept from being bucked off the writhing body.

“Tell me everything! His voice… it is low and seductive, I wager.”

“Are you insane?”

“What does he smell like? His scent is rich with dark spices and wild, feral woods, is it not?”

“I am being molested by a fat lunatic!”

That had Mycroft leaping off his brother and checking his silhouette in the floor-length mirror near his closet.

“I am _not_ fat!”

“I notice you did not debate the lunatic claim.”

“Because it is nonsensical. Now, what time is it? Ah, excellent. Fare thee well, Sherlock. I am off to enjoy a casual stroll in the park and savor this rather lovely day. Tell Mummy I may return in time for dinner but do not wait for me if I am not present when the meal is served.”

“You? Miss a meal? Impossible!”

“Toodle-oo, brother dear. Enjoy continuing to dust mop my floor.”

Mycroft took a final look at himself in the mirror, checking that each detail of his tastefully-torn jeans, faded green t-shirt, distressed black leather jacket and scuffed black work boots was perfection incarnate.

“What do you plan to do? Perform some grotesque harlequinade in the park and hope to lure him into your clutches before the constables arrive to escort you to Bedlam?”

“I am simply going for a walk to partake of the summer air and sunshine.”

“And what if you encounter the laborer…”

What if? _When_ I encounter Gregory, you mean…

“… what will you do then? Stand there like a portly statue? You cannot converse with him. You have no conversational skills unless, perhaps, you were discussing the impact of 16th century farming practices on wealth redistribution and subsequent shifts in the political winds of Europe.”

He could, too. He could have a long and vigorous conversation on that topic. Drat.

“Regardless, I am fully capable of chatting with Gr… anyone I might happen upon while I am out. Goodbye, Sherlock. Do try not to let your peevishness ferment your internals while I am gone.”

Before Sherlock could continue his tirade, Mycroft strutted out of the bedroom, down the stairs, out the front door of the house, then lost his strut as the reality of being outside his four walls, while wearing greasepaint and a clown suit, punched him between the eyes.

NO! No, he would not succumb to doubts and second thoughts. He had researched this look thoroughly and, if he was inclined to honesty, it suited him. Somewhat. The trousers were a touch uncomfortable due to their tightness, but the less formal shirt and jacket were flattering. His feet were not complaining… much… at the weight and unfamiliarity of the shoes and they did look rather impressive at the ends of his long legs. Which the uncomfortable jean tightness emphasized to a lovely degree.

Perhaps the cosmetics _were_ a touch shocking, but every single model in the magazines he had studied wore a bit of eyeliner to highlight his eyes. And he’d used a very modest hand with it, too. As well with the faint touch of color at the far edges of the upper lid and the almost invisible coat of mascara that merely gave his lashes a spot of definition. It had taken no more than sixty seconds to apply! After, that is, he had practiced. Quite a bit. But one always practiced what one wanted to present or perform and he was nothing if not exacting in his methods regardless the product they were intended to generate.

And his research was not limited to his own appearance. He had taken pains to observe closely when he noticed Gregory in the park or the village. A vigorous individual. Rugged. Infused with an energy that made his entire being glow. That was not an individual who would be interested in speaking… or anything else… with a stuffy academic who would gladly spend the remainder of his life in a library, as long as they allowed tea and biscuits to be served to the patrons. A person like that, biscuits or not, would not even attract a glance from someone like Gregory. And he did hope to attract a glance. Even one would be welcome…

__________

“Shut it, John.”

“Not in a million years.”

John continued to roll about on the floor, laughing maniacally and pointing at his friend, who was glaring with an intensity that threatened to set John’s hair on fire.

“I don’t have a clue what climbed up your arse, but…”

“You look like a grandfather.”

“Wrong.”

“You’ve slicked down your hair like one of those old duffers at the pub and have a suit on your back that looks like what a family picks when they have to _bury_ that old duffer! Who died of terminal dufferness.”

“Wrong, again. And fuck you.”

He’d just tamed his hair a bit to look respectable, which was always something to strive for, and clothes picked after a lot of careful thought to emphasize… whatever it was that made a chap respectable. Fuck the world, he’d gathered exactly what was in the magazine!

“What are you playing at here, Greg? Trying to coax the banking faeries to drop a ledger and pen into your hands? Fucking accountant.”

“I… I’m just giving myself a bit of a freshening.”

“What does that mean? Squirting a bit of that douche stuff on your bollocks? What scent did you buy? Lady of Spain or Pearly Princess?”

Greg kicked at John’s legs and threw in a satisfied rude gesture at the resulting yelp.

“It’s good to try new things, you bastard. You keep doing the same thing over and over, you get boring. Like you.”

“This is all about that bloody toff, isn’t it?”

“Got no idea who or what you’re talking about.”

Don’t be surprised, though, if you find your shoes filled with dog shit tomorrow morning. And I’ll feed the dog something beforehand to give it big and stinky shits, too.

“The toff! That stick-up-his-arse, fussy bloke haunting the park! Probably drafting a law or something to keep scruffs like you out of it.”

“Mycroft wouldn’t waste his time on something stupid like that.”

“Mycroft? Are you certain it’s not Nigel? Or Wilberforce? I have zero doubt his parents got his name out of one of those peerage lists and went for the most poncy one they could find.”

Greg snarled and nearly jumped on his chortling, braying best friend, but didn’t because it would wrinkle his clothes and he had spent an hour getting them pressed and adjusted exactly the way he wanted. And his hair! It had taken a fucking week to get his stupid hair to behave itself and not look like its normal weed-patch self. Maybe he should run a bit more gel through it because it’d take a few minutes to walk to the park and he couldn’t afford the fucking wind blowing in and undoing all his hard work.

“Your sense of humor, John, is… doesn’t fucking exist, actually.”

“You’re laughing on the inside, I know you are, because I’m just that funny. He’s a toffee-nosed twat! Prissy, talks like a fucking solicitor…”

“You talked to him!”

Greg dropped like a stone and sat on John, weathering John’s punches while he kept from being bucked off the smaller boy.

“Tell me everything! His voice… it’s smooth and sophisticated, I bet.”

“Are you loony?”

“What’s he smell like? It’s old leathery books and fancy cigars, isn’t it?”

“I’m being attacked by a scruffy nutter!”

That had Greg leaping off his friend and checking his face in the small mirror over his dresser.

“I am not scruffy!”

“I notice you didn’t mention the nutter bit.”

“Because it’s dumb. Ok, what time is it? Brilliant. Fuck off, John. I’m taking myself out for a little walk on this fine day. If you see Mum while you’re fucking off, tell her I should be home by supper, but don’t wait for me if I’m not.”

“You? Miss food? Not gonna happen!”

“Ta ta for now, John. Have fun using your arse to sweep my floor. It’s all you’re good for anyway.”

Greg took one last look at himself in the mirror, checking that each detail of his precisely pressed grey trousers, crisp white button-up, tidy charcoal jacket and well-polished shoes was the absolute definition of perfect.

“What’s your plan, Greg, huh? Set up a table in the park for your new accounting business and hope to lure him into your manicured clutches before the constables show up to drag you to the loony bin?”

“I’m just taking a walk, getting a bit of air.”

“And if you bump into Professor Poncy Boy…”

If? _When_ I bump into Mycroft, you mean…

“… what’re you gonna do then? Stand there like a stockbroker? You can’t talk to him. You have no skill for conversation except, maybe, when you’re trying to pull someone at a party.”

He could, too. He had a somewhat remarkable skill for doing that as a rather shameful number of people could attest. Shit.

“Ok, true, but I’m fully capable of chatting with My… any person I run across while I’m out. Fuck off back to your cave, John. Don’t let your envy and being a bastard give you a sour tummy.”

Before John could continue his heckling, Greg strutted out of the bedroom, down the stairs, out the front door of the house, then lost his strut as the reality of being outside his four walls, while looking like someone’s accountant grandfather, punched him between the eyes.

NO! No, he wasn’t going to give in to those evil self-doubts. He’d put a lot of thought and research into his look and, if he was honest with himself, that look looked fucking amazing on him. The trousers were a little uncomfortable due to weird high fit, but the button up and jacket were flattering. His feet weren’t complaining… much… at his toes being pinched and the shoes put a bit of glide into his stride that suited his legs, and arse, quite nicely. Which the uncomfortable trouser lines emphasized to a sexy degree.

Perhaps the grooming was a bit overdone, but every single model in the magazines he’d seen were freshly-scrubbed, clean shaven and without a hint of makeup. And he’d only used a bit of product to smooth down his stand-on-end hair. It hadn’t taken sixty seconds to run a comb through that mess and make it decent and proper. After, that is, he’d had a bit of practice. Quite a bit. Practice made perfect though, in football or getting dressed and Greg Lestrade didn’t do things by halves.

And all that research hadn’t just been about clothes and hair. He’d been watching Mycroft, when he was about in the village, with or without that brother of his. Poised. Graceful. Practically glowing with elegance and intellect. That wasn’t someone who would have an interest in talking… or anything else… with a rough punk who would gladly spend the remainder of his life in a club, as long as they had a telly so he could watch Arsenal kick arse when a match was on. A person like that, telly or not, wouldn’t even get a glance from someone like Mycroft. And he really did hope to get a glance. Even one would be welcome…


End file.
